


Consign Not to Darkness

by semicolonlife



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dark, F/M, Future Fic, Warging
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 07:20:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semicolonlife/pseuds/semicolonlife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The snows of winters have started to melt, thawing Westeros and its wars. The Brotherhood without Banners scrambles to regather its forces as Gendry begins to doubt their cause. The Mother of Dragons finally makes landfall and keeps a curious mix of exiled Westerosi in her routine. And Arya, returned, struggles to find herself again.</p><p>This story follows Gendry's coming of age and Arya's homecoming. It takes place roughly three years after A Dance with Dragons, but follows the ages of characters in the TV show (because that just makes everything so much easier). Aside from this, it will be, to the best of my knowledge, canon compliant. As of now, I do not know how long or were exactly this the story is headed. I only know it demanded to be written. I am more than willing to follow at its leisure. Future chapters will feature explicit content and character deaths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consign Not to Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Title come form Broken Crown by Mumford & Sons. Chapter 1 title comes from The Woods by Daughter.

They heard wolves the forth night. He sat before the night fire runnin' a whetstone against the edge of his sword. He was better with an mace, truth be told. It swung more like a hammer, but was slower and not as versatile as a sword. He was fair enough with an advantage of knowin' swords from making them. On several occasions, he has coated his blade with blood, which he supposed was all that mattered. Gendry didn't look up from his work until the second wolf called, some minutes later.

Thoros, the only other of their band awake, turned to him as the howl fades. He pulled his mantel down so he could speak. "Another, I think," said the red priest.

Gendry agreed and got to his feet. He slid his sword back into it's scabbard then went to collect more fuel for the fire.

It was the end of winter. Or, worse, the start of a false spring. Either way the snow was startin' to melt away and the frozen ground underneath turned to mud. The horses that survived the cold so far will soon be on the roads. The return of war. And with it, rumors.

As the first winter storms raged the Narrow Sea and snows touched the Crownlands and it came time to start figurin' out where to hold up, there came tales of pirates capturin' islands and a lesser stronghold in Shipbreaker Bay. Tyroshi, some said, keen to bring their freedom here. Dragons, still others said, but few and fervently, bringing their fire. Gendry didn't listen to such things. Nor did it matter much when the first true winds came down from the north, the true North, and brought hard frost to Highgarden, milder days but fiercer nights to Dorne. No one heard much of anything then except word that this holdfast had gone through their rations already or a chimney fire grew to consume a whole village and always the cries of frostbite pains as toes and noes and little fingers were burned away by ice.  
It was Gendry's second winter--third if he had been born at the end of a mild one--and if he had learned one thing it was the paradox of a burnin' cold. The sharp sting in his fingers and tops of his ears, like bein' pricked by scores of needles. How the very air seared his sinuses and seemed to freeze up his lungs, so that he was forced to breathe from his mouth in maddenin'ly shallow breaths. Gendry was use to burns. His hands and forearms were pock-marked from years of poundin' steal. But he'd prefer the fires of the forge seven times over than winter's unforgiving cold.

The wars stalled. At times the snow fell too quickly to keep the roads clear. Especially those in the hinterlands where all the small folk had been chased off or killed or were called away to stand under banners. For a time the Kingsroad remained passible. Legions of crimson cloaks hacked at the snowdrifts with pick axes, but not even Lannister gold could keep the road open. To either side the piles grew higher until the road was but a tunnel and that too caved under the weight of fresh snow.

Winter stalled the Brotherhood as well. Their numbers had swelled as more kings rose and fell. And where you were when the snows crested the height of wagon wheels was where you stayed for the whole of winter. The Inn at the Crossroads became a bastion. Thoros of Myr and Anguy had come with supplies and a cage of ravens with a few other men, who Gendry didn't know but from sight. They had hoped to be gone after helping Gendry and Jeyne better fortify the Inn's stable. That was more than three years now.

But now they are headed to Hollow Hill, where Gendry has not been since he was knighted. They received a raven almost two weeks past. It was time for the Brotherhood to start again. Another week passed before it was settled who would go and stay. In the end, Thoros led the group with Anguy, Gendry, Old Jon, who had white hair despite being only a few years past Anguy and he in age, and Jeyne with three of the brood: Jon Penny, Deaen, and Agnys, the only one Anguy taught archery with any success.

Their progress proved to be slow, but Thoros didn't seem to mind. It was necessary to stay at the same camp two nights in a row. Usin' the day after initial arrival to ready the trail, removin' fallen trees and shovelin' snow aside so the passage was wide enough for their horses and the cart.

The cart. It was parked down wind from the campsite. Always. It was the last of their train. Over winter, Gendry had grown to have great respect for Thoros, but the Red God was not for him. He did not doubt that R'hllor existed. He had seen his powers. But Gendry grew up with the Faith of the Seven as an ever present force shapin' Kings Landing. The Faith was in their curses, how they measured time, and gave them breaks from work and chances to celebrate on holy days. Tobho Mott may have still worshiped the Black Goat, but the Smith was the patron god of the Street of Steel and the only god Gendry put any faith into.

Old Jon guarded the cart and stood from his smaller fire when Gendry approached. "Am I off?"

"Not yet. Thoros sent me for another."

"Because of the wolves?"

"There may only be one," Gendry said and as if in answer, a third howl pierced the night. "Not wood," he corrected.

Old Jon dropped the bundled of spilt logs and went to the back of the cart. "He'll spend all night looking into his night fire."

"I thought you followed the Red God."

"I do. The night _is_ dark and full of terrors." He climbed up into the cart, grabbed a limb and pulled it. "But the way he stares. One night he's gonna walk into the flames and join R'hllor."

Gendry recalled how Thoros breathed fire to resurrect Lord Beric. "Would the flames burn him?" he asked, coming forward to help.

Old Jon looked up. "I don't know," he said then shrugged. "Ready?"

He nodded and stooped some. Old Jon hoisted the body onto Gendry's shoulder. He shifted the weight, then straightened. Winter killed all it could. The ground was too hard to dig graves.

Old Jon hopped down from the cart and cracked his back. "Winter has made me soft. I never thought I'd miss the Inn, but I'd take a hundred screaming brats if it meant I could sleep in an actual bed."

Gendry laughed. "It's been four days."

"I know, but don't tell me you don't miss it either."

He did. More than he liked to admit. When he was first sent there during autumn, Gendry had thought he was being punished. Now it had been made his home by winter.

"Sage?" Old Jon nodded and retrieved a small bundle from a leather satchel. When he had stuffed it into dead man's pocket, Gendry returned to the main camp. Thoros came to help him and together they heaved the body into the fire. 

They watched the flames lick at the body and finally catch the tattered clothing. If burning flesh smelled, he no longer registered it. "Why you send me to the Crossroads Inn?" Gendry asked, not looking away.

"Speak plain."

"I was a knight—am. And you suggesded that I go to Crossroads to be blacksmith again." He shook his head. "It was just Jeyne then and the orphans. There weren't even a horse. They didn't need no smith."

Thoros pulled a deep breath through his nose and kept his eyes fixed on the flames as if reading them. "I sent Edric Dayne away. And Jon. And Meg. Others." The red priest turned to look at him. "Those with soft hearts."

Gendry bristled. Before he can object, Thoros asked, "Do you remember your vows?"

"Of course," he answered coming closer. "I would obey my liege lord and my king. To protect those who can't."

"And who is your lord? Your king?"

He frowned. "King Tommen sits the Iron Throne," answered Gendry, feeling as through he had stepped into a trap.

Thoros made a noncommittal gesture. The logs in the fire popped and hissed. Gendry was just about to press the subject when the Myrman continued. "I saw how you watch Lady Stoneheart. It differed from the rest. She queasy-ed you. Made you sick at her talk. Then I remember, you know her daughter."

 _Arya._ The memory stung worse than the cold.

"The Lady is not your lord. Tommen is still a boy with a court of thorns." Thoros sounded pained. He turned back to the fire. "I see dragons in my flames. And snow."

Gendry looked as well, but for all his years of staring into fires, he had never seen a lick of the future. Tonight was no different.

"It is time for you sleep. Go."

Gendry didn't argue. Using a pick, he pulled a pair of bricks from the fire's edge then wrapped them in a bit of canvas. He then retrieved his blanket and went to the tent he shared with Anguy and a younger boy named Deaen.

It took a few tries to wake Anguy for his watch shift. The other man sat up, rubbin' the heal of a palm against his eyes. "I was having the best dream," he said. Deaen squirmed and pulled his furs tighter around him. "I was up to me ears in cunt. She was as juicy as a peach. Tasted like a peach. A fresh one. All ripe and sweet." Anguy looked at him. "I'd kill for a peach."

Gendry had gotten his boots off and placed his bricks at the foot of the bedroll. "Didn't you just have…a peach before we left?" He knew he had. Gendry could hear him and Jeyne going at it most of the night. The Inn was strong, made of white stone, but old and with thin walls.

Anguy waved this off. "I mean a real peach."

After Anguy dressed and left for his watch shift, Gendry was still awake and puzzlin' over what Thoros had said. If Lady Stoneheart wasn't their liege lord, why had they answered her summons? Why were they returning to Hollow Hill?


End file.
